


Kissing (Booth) Grantaire

by french_crap



Series: Starless Sky [8]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Kissing, Kissing Booths, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:55:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_crap/pseuds/french_crap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Come on, R! This is what you always wanted, no?!” someone in the line shouted.</p><p>Unable to comprehend the situation he hectically looked around, the faces all turned to him, grinning at him, laughing about him, everyone was watching. Everyone was expecting him to do something. With a sudden, brutal pain in his temples, Grantaire realised that his pining on Enjolras had been so excessive, that not just Jehan and Combeferre knew about it. Not just Joly, and Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly, Eponine. Not just Les Amis. No. Everyone knew about it. It was a collective joke. He looked at Enjolras, who huffed, drove his hand through his hair and turned his face away. Everyone knew. And so did Enjolras.</p><p>“Now let us finally do what we must do, Grantaire.” Enjolras insisted coldly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kissing (Booth) Grantaire

**Author's Note:**

> A very old prompt I recently found again, for my beautiful Aubrey. I can't quite remember what her prompt said but it must have been something like "Kissing Booth Grantaire"

Their lips met. Grantaire knew them too well. He had kissed them so many many times, and even more in his dreams. Even with closed eyes, his hands knew their way to Jehan's neck and their lower back. He drove his fingers through their hair, the hair that was supposed to be dark brown but happened to be light and ginger, – and smirked when the people around them started to applaud, whistle and laugh. He pulled back and found a laughing Jehan in his arms, a line of students behind them and a booth with a little, pink piggy-bank on it, between them.  
A kissing booth.

\---

“A kissing booth!” Grantaire shouted into the heated discussion about how an idea for a fund raiser, cutting into Enjolras' words again. Everyone who had been speaking until this point, was suddenly silent and turned to face their drunk friend, who was sitting on the bar counter and raising his whisky glass. 

“Everyone loves kissing, no?” he continued, barely noticing how everyone was actually listening for once. “It would be funny. Outside of the Sorbonne, on the other street side, between the fountains. One kiss one Euro, everyone who goes to the uni should be able to afford that much, no? Or better. Cheek, fifty cents. Nose, one euro. Lips, three euro. Full-on-sexy-smooch-with-tongue, five euro. Sex, ten euro. Let's be honest, we would do it for free, anyways. And it's such an American idea, even the stuck up people would find it quirky and amusing to try it. Especially if it's for a good cause!” 

“Oh, Grantaire.” Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. But Joly raised his hand.

“No, no, no, actually I think this is a great idea. People don't like donating money via check when they don't know if it'll really go where it should be, but no one will miss a single Euro in their wallets.”

“And you know how students are. Funny ideas make them feel all spontaneous.” Bossuet agreed.

Feuilly, who had been drawing little butterflies on Cosette's arm, turned to Enjolras and spoke quietly. “I could write about it in the school's newspaper.” Enjolras sat down. Being cut off in the middle of his sentence had brought an expression of annoyance onto his face. But now that even Feuilly agreed, his features went soft. He almost smiled.

“People would pay money to kiss a stranger?” He was visibly doubting mankind again.

“Depends on who the stranger is!” Courfeyrac laughed, playfully setting up the collar of his pink polo shirt. “I would obviously sacrifice myself. For the good of everyone.”

Enjolras frowned softly, resting his chin in his hand.

“Of course you would. Haven't you already kissed the entire school?” Bahorel laughed, sipping her beer. Courfeyrac nodded, grinning proudly, his face turning red anyways. The others chimed into Bahorel's laugh, and for another brief moment, no one said a word. Enjolras hummed pensively and watched Feuilly draw his little butterflies. Grantaire lay down on the bar and balanced the whisky glass on his forehead. Even Combeferre had uncrossed his arms and scribbled notes down into a pro and contra list. It was Bossuet who broke the silence.

“If we do it, someone else should do it, though. Not Courf, I mean. Courf has just recently been sick and I refuse see the Sorbonne closing because he stuck his tongue into everyone's throat.” A tiny chuckle was to be heard from the very corner of the Corinth. It was Jehan, who was reading a book.

“What are you laughing about, Prouvaire?” Courfeyrac pouted, his eyes on Joly, who started pepping lots of little kisses all over Bossuet's face. 

Jehan nodded towards Grantaire. “I think 'Taire should do it.” 

Once more, all eyes turned towards the intoxicated man on the bar counter, who, as he heard his name, turned his head to look back at them. “What's it 'bout me?!”

Enjolras shook his head. “I doubt this is a good idea, Prouvaire, my friend.” 

Grantaire grunted and shrugged, placing the whisky glasses back on the bar counter. But Combeferre cleared his voice. “If you allow me, Enjolras?” The joyful conversations picked up again, and the buzzing of everyone's voices overlay Combeferre's words, so he leaned over to his friend as he spoke. “I do actually think it is a good idea. Don't we always say that Grantaire could do more to participate in the activities of this group? Wouldn't it be a good chance for him to prove himself?” 

“But will he actually do it, or will he just ruin his chance again?” Both looked over to Grantaire, who had started to perform the Cup Song with his whisky glass.

“The general idea of a kissing booth doesn't bother you?” 

Enjolras hesitated. “I think we should try it.”

“Then let us give Grantaire a chance. If he doesn't show up, we can still ask Courfeyrac to do it.” 

“I wouldn't mind doing it either.” Feuilly smiled, who, due to sitting next to Enjolras, had been able to listen to the exchange of thoughts. “If I find the time to come, that is.”

“I'd jump in, too, if Marius doesn't mind.” Cosette smiled, rolling her sleeves down over her wrist now that Feuilly was finished drawing.

Enjolras smiled his typical polite - almost diplomatic, indifferent - and calm smile and nodded.

\---

To everyone's surprise; Grantaire did show up.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, Feuilly had let everyone know about the kissing booth donation via the Sorbonne's Newspaper, all kinds of students were eager to see the actual booth (which everyone had been talking about for a week now) finally being put up, Courfeyrac had bought a piggy-bank in which you stuck the money into the piggy's ass, and ... even Grantaire had shown up. When they carried out a table and set it up on the other street side in front of the Sorbonne, Grantaire had contributed soberly by bringing a chair. Enjolras had looked infinitely reassured and Combeferre almost proud. It could not have worked any better. 

The line formed quickly, but because Grantaire was talking to Jehan, everyone suddenly considered them to be the first one in the line. Clapping their hands, they started chanting “Kiss, kiss, kiss” until Grantaire laughed and grabbed his friend's face to plant a kiss to their lips.

The applause afterward made them both blush but Grantaire grinned it off. He reached out his hand. “That makes three euros, please.” 

From then on, everything went great. Like a real business. Many people were queuing up 'to donate for the good cause', but even more were awkwardly standing around in little groups, smoking and watching what was happening. Grantaire tried to convince them to be less shy but it didn't quite work.

“What about you?” he eventually asked Combeferre, who sat next to him, keeping a record of the money they made. “You don't feel the need to kiss me?”

Combeferre looked at him over the border of his glasses, sceptically, then continued to write. Grantaire sighed. Since last Friday, their first official movie night, to finally get to know each other, they had not spoken a single word. Friday night itself had been painfully awkward and silent, involving a lot of 'So...'s and lost coughs. During the last meeting in the Corinth, the one where they had decided to try out a kissing booth, Grantaire had eventually fallen asleep on the bar counter. It was Combeferre who had woken him up, so that Madame Hucheloup could close the place.  
“Don't you like me, Ferre?”   
“You need to go home and sleep, R.”  
“Why don't you like me, Ferre?”  
“R. Please.”  
If only someone had told Grantaire that shyness in some people, appears as harshness and indifference sometimes.

“A kiss on the lips, please.”

Grantaire snapped out of his thoughts and turned his head to look at the person who was next in the line. But he didn't need to see to know who it was. He had recognised the voice immediately.

“Enjolras.” he blinked. Somewhere behind him someone giggled, but he barely noticed. The blood in his head started rushing loudly, his ears started burning and he felt his cheeks turn numb. If Enjolras light hadn't been so bright, everything around him would have turned black.

With a determined expression, Enjolras placed down the three Euros. “A kiss, please.” he repeated, applying the most polite version of 'please' and trying his best French accent. When Grantaire still didn't react, more giggles were to hear from all around them.

For how much time did they know each other now? Three years? They had met the first day of university, politics 101, and ever since Grantaire had heard Enjolras having a heated discussion with the professor, his blond curls repeatedly falling into his face, his Spanish accent giving his words a melody Grantaire had never even dreamed before, ever since he had fallen so deeply in love with this person, he had wished for such an encounter. Not exactly this kind of an encounter, obviously, but a situation in which Enjolras demanded a kiss from him. And now he was in this very situation, and it was nothing at all like the ones he had dreamed about.

“Come on, R! This is what you always wanted, no?!” someone in the line shouted. Grantaire startled and his ever-existing grin, the one that was so typical for him, the savior of every awkward situation, the visual form of his sarcasm dark jokes, disappeared. 

Unable to comprehend the situation he hectically looked around, the faces all turned to him, grinning at him, laughing about him, everyone was watching. Everyone was expecting him to do something. With a sudden, brutal pain in his temples, Grantaire realised that his pining on Enjolras had been so excessive, that not just Jehan and Combeferre knew about it. Not just Joly, and Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly, Eponine. Not just Les Amis. No. Everyone knew about it. It was a collective joke. He looked at Enjolras, who huffed, drove his hand through his hair and turned his face away. Everyone knew. And so did Enjolras.

“Now let us finally do what we must do, Grantaire.” Enjolras insisted coldly, evoking even more mocking laughs and excited chatter.

Grantaire's throat closed up. He stumbled up to his feet, swaying slightly, hesitated and excused himself. 

He crossed the street, hastily, without looking, his heart pounded so heavily that he paid no attention to where his feet carried him, and disappeared in the building of the Sorbonne. 

\---

About fifteen minutes later, his stomach emptied, his throat sore, he was leaning over a sink in a bathroom, trying to rinse his mouth. The pain that had shot into his temple was still giving him a headache, and his knees were so weak that he could barely hold himself on his legs. His entire upper body was hunched over the sink with the running water. When the door opened, he prayed that it was no one he knew. No one who knew him.

“R?” 

He winced. Filling his mouth with water, he leaned his head back and gargled, before spitting it out and then wiping his mouth. With a deep breath, he stood up straight and put on a grin. The grin. His grin. “I shouldn't have been drinking this much last night, huh?” 

But it was Combeferre who was standing in the door, and he didn't mirror Grantaire's expression. He looked worried.  
They held each other's gaze for a long moment, Combeferre keeping his frown, Grantaire keeping his grin. But then the grin fell, and Combeferre sighed, closing his eyes. Without another word Grantaire sat on the window sill. Combeferre joined him, just as silently.

“He was never really interested in being ... interested back.”

Combeferre shrugged.

“Was he?” he insisted and Combeferre let out a soft sigh, looking out of the window. His glasses were slightly slipped down his nose again, but this time he didn’t push them up. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“Have you truly ever talked to him, R?”  The ironic abreviation for Grantaire’s name sounded wrong. 

“You heard our discussions.”

“Your fights.”

“Our discussions about our opinions.”

Combeferre’s eyes darted over to Grantaire and pinned him to where he was, his voice was suddenly icy and sharp, but not at all loud. “Political fights with which you tried to push him to the extreme for your personal enjoyment. If those had been discussions, you’d have listened to him. Listened to what he believes in, and actually tried to understand. But you never even started a conversation with him. You always just blurted out your opinions and interrupted him in his preparations for a cause he actually believes in. You never asked how he was before you stopped him from talking to his friends and collegues, you never even asked a single damn question about his past, his interests outside of his activism, merde, Grantaire, not even a single question about his day!”

A few seconds passed in which Grantaire just stared at Combeferre, taken aback, before he huffed and looked at the cigarette between his fingers. Combeferre was, and there was no way around it, absolutely right. “Fuck.” With another loud huff which ended in a shaky breath, Grantaire drove his hand through his hair and shut his eyes. He knew he had fucked up, but until now, he had not wasted many thoughts on how exactly he had fucked up. 

“I’ve been his best friend for thirteen years now, Grantaire...” It was the softness in Combeferre’s voice that forced Grantaire to keep his eyes shut. “I was there for him when he arrived in our school for the first time and his accent was so thick that he didn’t speak for a whole month. If it hadn’t been for Courfeyrac and his candy, he would probably have kept shut for ever. I was there for him when his brother died. I was there for him when he spent weeks in a hospital bed because some bullies in our school had decided to pick up on him. I was there for him when he first dared to speak up to his parents - and then cried for seven hours straight -, I was there for him when he started really loving the French language, I was there when he got really popular and used this to gather people to come to protests with us. Whether he was happy, or sad, or mad, or tired or confused, I was always there for him. Even when ... when a girl nearly kissed him because she thought this was a good time, and his reaction was so strong, that he ran all the way from Billancourt to the 13th arrondissement to knock on my door in the middle of the night. It took him years to accept himself as he is, he had terrible problems at home, with his language, with bigoted people. And I was always there for him to reassure him that who he was, wasn’t anything shameful. That although Courfeyrac loves to sleep around, it doesn’t mean that he has to do that too. And you know what? I was there, too, when he realised that I was right. When he realised that it was alright to not want to love people, or at least not want to to screw them.”

Grantaire felt sick again. His head was turning. Not only was he overwhelmed by this disgusting feeling of having pined over a guy he really knew nothing about, but he also knew how Combeferre was going to say now. “And then I came along...”

“And then you come along.”

“Fuck.”

As he spoke, Combeferre's voice became louder, more hurried, more pleading and urgent. “It’s not like he can’t like people. But you never even gave him a chance to like you. You just walked right into the Corinth, decided that he was your new objective of desire, and started to corner him with your ... lust. As it surely wasn’t love. He was terrified! Not ... not of you, of course, but of himself! Of what other people would think. You’re good-looking, and funny, and occasionally you’re even nice, and he just didn’t want to. So people started asking him why, and he was terrified to be confronted with a part of his personality he does not want to talk about. And I just ... And he just ... And I...”

Grantaire opened his eyes to see what caused the trembling in Combeferre’s voice. He had taken off his glasses and was pressing the back of his hand against his mouth.

In the second Grantaire appeared a tears rolling down his friend’s cheek, he scooted over to him, closer, and wrapped him into a tight hug. “Shit, no, ‘Ferre. Don’t ... don’t cry. What the hell, there’s no reason to cry. Except maybe about how stupid I am, damn, I'm going to cry about this myself, but... ‘Ferre.” He squeezed him a little and Combeferre let out the tiniest sniffle, which was, as he had to admit to himself, terribly cute. 

“I’m sorry.” Although more tears were streaming down his face now, a little giggle found its way out of his throat between the stifled sobs. Grantaire stared in confusion. He had seen his friend moved by quite a few emotions before, but this was certainly the first time he saw tears glistening on Combeferre's cheeks.

“D-don’t be. What is up? Why are you crying?”

Combeferre sighed shakily, attempting to wipe the tears from his face. “I just love him so terribly much. I don’t want him to be sad.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows in non-belief. “You’re in love with Ap-... Enjolras?” He had to admit that although he had claimed to love Enjolras for the longest time, he’d have never cried over the possibility of him not being happy.  And wasn't that a thing you do when you're in love? Being scared that the other might be sad?

“Oh, God, no!” Combeferre laughed. “That would be worse than incest.” He shook his head. “No, I, no, I just love him. And he’s a really, really wonderful friend. He doesn’t deserve to be the center of a joke.”

Grantaire bit his lips, his smile disappeared and his arms fell back down to his side. He stared at his hands, folded in his lap.

“I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean to make him feel like a joke.”

“Don't say that to me. Say it to him.”

“I will...”

Combeferre nodded, finishing to wipe his cheeks dry and taking a few deeps breaths.

“I really was nothing more than a joke to the others, was I?” Grantaire could imagine it all too well. Bahorel and Courfeyrac impersonating him on evenings which he wasn't invited to, Joly and Bossuet telling the funniest stories about him, Feuilly teasing Enjolras about it, and Enjolras … Enjolras just trying not to listen and not to feel pressured to respond to any of this. No wonder Jehan and Combeferre had always felt responsible to take care of Grantaire. He was a joke, who needed assistance to not make a complete ass of himself. “Not only did I force him to be the fucking pointe of a stupid joke he never wanted to be a part of, but I am also not more than a joke myself.”

“No you're not.” Combeferre said and crossed his legs, casually lighting himself a joint. Grantaire paused in surprise. Where did that thing suddenly come from?

“You smoke?”

“I smoke.”

“Share.” Grantaire, still with an expression of bewilderment on his face, plucked the joint from Combeferre's fingers and took a drag. 

Combeferre sighed and clasped his hands, resting the heel of them on his knee. “You're more than a joke.”

“Yeah, I bet.” 

“Grantaire...” Combeferre turned to face him, taking the joint back. “You and Jehan, you're very close, aren't you?”

“Yeah, but we're not a thing. Not a … real thing.” For whatever reason, Grantaire felt the need to make sure that Combeferre knew. And Combeferre did know. He nodded.

“You must have noticed that they're very good at understanding people, and that they have the ability to sense when someone is ... fishy.”

Grantaire frowned. It was true. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were usually the first to point out when they didn't feel comfortable around a person. They'd sense a fight coming up long before Grantaire even noticed that the mood was turning unpleasant. They were worried for their friends, and always reaching out to others to make sure that no one got hurt. Jehan, though, would rather act like a cat. When they noticed that something was off – and often they didn't even know what it was -, they would leave the room, or naturally seek distance to whomever appeared untrustworthy. “I guess?”

Combeferre smiled and handed him the joint back, his movements were slow and calm. Grantaire could still not believe that Combeferre, the mastermind behind Enjolras, was intoxicating himself in this very moment. “Do you remember the first day you met them?” 

“Yeah, sure. It was after class and we were talking about making posters for one of the protests. With the others, the art and lit majors. Why?”

“But Jehan. How did you meet Jehan. They sat down next to you when everyone took their place on the lawn, and then? Why did you talk to them.”

“I didn't. Not at first.” Grantaire's frown had deepened. The confusion was so visible on his face that Combeferre couldn't help but hide a smirk behind his hand. He was just about to help Grantaire further to understand what he meant, when Grantaire realised it himself. “Oh! You mean, because they fell asleep on my lap? And when everyone was leaving, I didn't want to wake them up, so I just stayed in the same position for another three hours?” 

Combeferre laughed. “When Jehan told us about this the next day, I knew that you were a keeper.” He paused and cleared his throat, finally putting his glasses back up on his nose. “In the … amicable sense of this … word.” 

“Right.” Grantaire smirked. He had nearly forgotten about this. Jehan had never let him know that they had told this to the others of the group. “Funny.”

“You're a wonderful friend, Grantaire.” Combeferre eventually continued in his habitual, calm and serious manner. Gone was the anger about an unhappy Enjolras, gone was the tears of love. The stench of the weed's smell lay in the air. “The fact that Jehan trusts you says a lot about you. Maybe you're a bit … self-centered from time to time, but you're never really … egoistical. Not on purpose, at least. If I am being very honest, even, I have to admit that I was always quite jealous of your friendship with the others of the group.”

A faint blush appeared on Grantaire's dark skin. “You were? Bullshit.” 

“No, I'm honest.” Combeferre chuckled. For a second Grantaire wondered if this was the first time that he heard Combeferre chuckle. Had they never joked around each other? Was this possible? Or was his memory just fooling him? “Jehan obviously adores you crazily, Joly and Bossuet always seem eager to spend time with you, Bahorel loves to make Courfeyrac jealous by telling him that you're a better wingman than he is, and even Feuilly who works day and night makes time to spend an afternoon with you. You all have those many, many insiders, and the only moments I ever get to see you is when you're dr-...” He stopped himself abruptly and looked down.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took another drag of the joint. “When I'm drunk and whining about Apollo, no, yes, I know. I'm well aware that I'm an asshole. Continue.”

With an apologetic smile, Combeferre shrugged. “You're an amazing friend for everyone – but me. And Enjolras, maybe. That kind of hurt. Mostly because I am pretty sure that it's because you think I'm really boring, and I always wanted to prove you wrong. But you never gave me a chance. It was always … 'Oh, look, 'Ferre, better put on my serious face.'” 

“Well. With the weed, you just ruined this opinion I had of you.” Grantaire laughed and shook his head. “What would you have done if to prove me wrong? If I had given you a chance.”

Combeferre paused for a moment, clicking his tongue. “Give me this blunt.” 

“I give you a chance. Prove me wrong.” 

“I will. Now give me the blunt.”

He did, and with eyes that slowly started to sting from all the smoke around them, he watched how Combeferre brought the joint between his full, beautifully dark lips and took a lung-deep breath, before cradling Grantaire's neck and leaning in. When his face was so close to his own, Grantaire's closed his eyes and inhaled the smoke his friend was exhaling into his open mouth.

\---

When they left the building of the University again, Courfeyrac had taken Grantaire's place. He was sitting there, grinning widely and talking to the people in the line. A line, that was significantly longer than when Grantaire had been sitting behind the booth.

„I'm offended.“ he smirked, linking his fingers with Combeferre's. 

„You shouldn't be. I doubt it is much of a secret that Courfeyrac has many …“

„Fans?“

„...friends.” Combeferre smiled. Grantaire gazed at him from the side. Combeferre had an absolute gorgeous smile. Why had he never noticed this before?

“Hey, guys.” Courfeyrac waved his arm excitedly as they walked over to him. “I decided to crank up the business a little. I hope you don't mind.” While he spoke, he shoved the Euros he was given into the little piggy-bank's ass and grabbed the first person in the line to smooch them. When latter swaggered away, happily, he got up and turned to Grantaire and Combeferre. For a moment his eyes fell on their hands, and he seemed to halt. But then he shook his head and put on his grin again. “Do you want your seat back?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Nah, actually I'm quite fine with just watching you selling your body for so little money.” Courfeyrac laughed. “Besides, you seem to make more money, and the cause definitely needs as much as it can get. Right, Ferre?” But Combeferre was absent-mindedly smiling at Enjolras, who was standing in the middle of the line. Seeming to listen attentively to what Feuilly was saying, his arms were crossed and a soft frown rested on his forehead. When he nodded, his blond locks jumped up and down, simultaneously to Combeferre's lips curling up a little more. 

“Admit it, R.” Courfeyrac started, showing the gap between his front teeth. “You are just jealous because they all want to kiss me, and not you.”

“Oh, please.” Grantaire snorted. “If I wanted, I could have all of them. At once. All together, in the same night.” 

Courfeyrac pressed another deep, surprisingly real and steamy looking kiss on the next person in the line, before stepping aside. His arm gestured towards the now empty chair. “Please, be my guest.”

“Nah, man. I said if I wanted.”

“And you don't want to?” Courfeyrac asked snarkily.

Combeferre's detached his eyes from Enjolras and turned his head ever so slightly to look at Grantaire. Grantaire caught his look, briefly glanced down to the ground, and then smirked back up at Courfeyrac.   
“Yep. Totally don't want to anymore.”


End file.
